


The Water

by gertrudeabernathy



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Daydreaming, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Swimming Pools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gertrudeabernathy/pseuds/gertrudeabernathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Harold talk about whether swimming might help Harold's back. Thinking about going to the pool as Harold's totally unqualified and doting physical therapist does not help John retain any sort of peace of mind. NOW COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pictures

“You are doing a little better, I think, Mr Reese,” said Finch tentatively, one quiet afternoon when they were just sitting in the library, Reese reading an old history book and Finch toying with some odd code that he had stumbled across.

“How do you mean, Harold?” Reese put his finger in his book but didn’t close it.

“I think - your sorrow weighs on you less. A little less.”

Reese shifted, considering. “I don’t know. It’s always there. I want it there. You mean Joss, right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“But - maybe.” He shifted again slightly. “Maybe you think that, because it’s you, Finch. Maybe _you_ are doing better.”

“I am all right.”

“Shaw cheers you up.”

“She alarms me.”

“She irritates you, and it’s stimulating for you. And she is an interesting case. You know, you like interesting cases, not just good people, or nice ones.”

“Hm.”

They both turned back to their respective activities for a few minutes.

“Harold?”

“Yes?” 

“Has everything that could be done for your neck, for your back - has everything been done? Have you left anything untried because of the work, or the risk? Reconstructions, things like that?”

“Why do you ask that today?”

“I could see it was hurting you worse than usual yesterday.”

“It’s - . There are things they could try, but there are no guarantees of success, and serious risks of further injury.”

“What about swimming? Pilates? Things like that. Would there be a benefit to us trying to do more of those things when we get a quiet day?”

“Well - I can swim - but… I don’t like how vulnerable it makes me and whoever is with me, when I am quite helpless - getting in and out by a ladder is difficult, for instance. And I cannot see properly.“

“Prescription goggles?”

“Of little use. They fog up and cannot really address issues more complex than myopia.”

“And you have an astigmatism.”

“Yes, among other things.”

“I don’t want to offend you, Harold,” said Reese, frowning at the window, “but I hope you know I would come with you to the Y, and if you needed any help climbing in or out, I could be there. Or I could stay dry, read and keep an eye out.”

“It takes me forever to get ready, and in and out.”

“Does it hurt when you are in the water?”

“No. Much less.”

“Does the effect last?”

“It makes it better the next day. Sometimes the day after, too.”

“If it relieves the pain, gives you even a little more mobility - wouldn’t it be worth it? To go when we could?”

“What if a number came in?”

“What if the number is another infant, and you are unable to pick her up after I am shot?”

Finch looked at him tightly.

“Harold - what if you are able to sleep for longer than a few hours? What if you find yourself feeling more intellectually creative? What if you live another ten years?”

“I - I don’t lack exercise, Mr Reese. I walk.”

Reese closed his mouth on a breath. “I know.” He took another breath. “I don’t mean to push. Sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry about.” Finch re-settled. “Thank you for asking.”

And that was that, for several weeks.

Until one morning, after an undignified scramble out of a warehouse office where a jealous business partner had ineffectively attempted to set a fire and burn their number out of existence, when Harold couldn’t begin to hide the pain.

He was sitting more stiffly than usual in the back of a hire car, as the sun struggled up, while John put salve and a dressing on a nickel-sized burn on his own hand from a flying ember. Reese knew that Finch was trying to control his breathing, and tried not to make him self-conscious by acknowledging it. He could even see in his peripheral vision that the sheen of perspiration on Finch’s brow and top lip from the exertion of half-running was not fading away. Finch was white with his ineffective effort of concealment, until the back wheel bounced over a pothole and there was a little jolt. It forced a pain sound out of Harold, and sweat ran in drops down his face.

“Pretty bad, Finch?’ Reese asked quietly.

“Well, it’s been better,” he admitted, and closed his eyes. He looked like he might faint.

Reese reopened the chilled water he had been drinking, and dampened his folded handkerchief. “We’ll be back at the library in five. Tell me if I’m hurting your neck.” He put his hand behind Harold’s head and put the cold material to his forehead. He thought the rigidity of Harold’s posture relaxed slightly, and his pale lips opened a little. Reese wondered if even the touch of a friendly hand was enough to take the edge off. 

They made it to the elevator and back to the office, where Finch leaned against the wall, trying to breathe through it. 

“What will be least painful? Do you want your chair? or to lie flat with a book under your head? The couch?”

“I can make my own way to the couch, thank you. But if I could trouble you to collect something from the bathroom?” The something in question was pain medication, pills so strong that a few minutes after he took two, Finch was asleep, his face soft and his breathing very, very slow. Reese helped himself to a quarter of one tablet for his hand and to get a feel for what Finch had taken, and then found himself quite content to sit with his back against the couch, half-reading and half-listening to those slow, light breaths. He didn’t want to drop off himself, just in case, so he wandered out after a few minutes, found some horrible energy drink that Shaw had put in the refrigerator against an emergency and drank it, and sat back down. It was almost dark outside again when Finch stirred behind him.

“How long?”

“About seven hours.”

“Anything come in?”

“Not that I heard. How is it?”

“Better.” There was a long, long pause. Reese could feel Finch lying absolutely still. “I think I am putting you in unnecessary danger.”

“That idiot who started the fire put us in unnecessary danger. Your Machine put us in unnecessary danger - unncessary to us, anyway - sending us Lorenz’s number. And Lorenz - he was an idiot himself - how could he have not seen what his partner was up to? He put us in unnecessary danger. Danger is everywhere. Who knows what is necessary and unnecessary? No-one, until after the fact, anyway.”

“It can’t be regular, I don’t think, but I should try the swimming again.”

“Can I come with you?” asked Reese, half-twisting around.

Finch smiled. “I can get a qualified trainer, Mr Reese, there’s no need.”

“But -“ said Reese, and stopped in surprise. He really wanted to go. He wanted to go swimming at the pool with Harold - because he wanted to see Harold’s body, to touch him, to support his slight weight in the water as he floated on his back. He wanted to see Harold’s old scars, and understand what had happened to him, but his curiosity wasn’t historical. He had quite a detailed picture in his mind of what it would be like at the pool - there would be other people around in groups of twos and threes, in the dim light, and a few other swimmers in the water, but no one close by, as he half-lifted Harold out of the water at the ladder. In his mental picture, Harold had on neat navy swimming trunks - not a speedo or boardshorts - possibly with a trim of a row of tiny white buttons, a sort of mini-fly. He saw Harold’s body as quite white and a little soft, though not fat, and narrowish at the shoulders but strong there from the effort of walking with a stiff back and using the cane, with soft salt-and-pepper hair on his chest and in a trail leading down to the trunks, and a little dusting of hair at the bottom of his back, too, and of course on his legs (which would be not thin, but slimmer than his own, finely curved around the calves). In the picture in his mind, Harold was a little breathless and surprised from the feeling of being lifted and was saying, “ha!”, not exactly laughing at the oddness of the situation but pleased by the whole thing, elated from the freedom he had gained in the water, and from being helped. 

Reese was not often troubled by the vividness of his imagination, so it took him a moment to realize that he had been thinking about this picture, refining it, working out the details and possibly - in a fragmentary sort of way - daydreaming about it, for some time.

“Or - “ said Finch.

“Sure,” said Reese. “Someone qualified. To really help you.” And then he had to get up and go straight out to lock himself in the bathroom, with his eyes stinging, face burning, ears ringing, because he was giving up on his pictures the same moment he knew for sure they were there in his mind, giving up immediately - on Harold floating in front of him, relaxing and moving to stay in position, barely touching John’s hands, and Harold gasping to feel John’s physical strength as he boosted him up, and possibly the two of them sitting in the dry sauna - he loved the hickory smell, it was so empty and satisfying - he was giving it up without ever trying to get it. He was rejecting his pictures, the ache he had just discovered inside himself for the sight and feel of Harold undressed. It was dangerous to think of the pictures, because they meant that he wanted more than Harold had ever offered him - and John had been offered the world. He would make Harold - not sick or anything, Harold was no homophobe, he was as relaxed as anyone with such a terrifying life could be, and good-humoured, and he wanted everyone to be free and happy - but he would make him baffled and distressed and maybe distant, or even frustrated, that he couldn’t give what Reese what he wanted. So he had to forget about his hands gripping Harold’s hips, slippery from the water, immediately. He stared at his grim face in the mirror over the sink, compartmentalizing, scorching out that vague feeling of longing. 

Of course Harold had struggled to the bathroom door. “Mr Reese - John,” he was saying, already distressed. “Please tell me if I said the wrong thing. I know you are upset. Please open the door."


	2. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John eats Chinese food, but misses out on the egg rolls, remembers his late grandmother, sleeps, has a nightmare, drinks beer, and gives his dog a hug. Finch is baffled, agrees with Shaw, saves a life, and discloses an informational asymmetry.

John checked his face in the mirror, and saw that he looked fairly normal, no grimmer than usual, so he unlocked and opened the bathroom door. 

“I’m fine, Finch. There isn’t a problem.”

“You very kindly offered to help me and I -“

“Harold. Stop.”

Finch stopped, but his mouth was a tight screw of unhappiness. He turned away and limped down the corridor, his hand opening and closing. 

John followed him down to the office, and waited till he was sitting in his chair.

“I’m starving, Harold. Can we get a big order of Chinese in? From that place with the egg rolls?”

His hands were flickering over the keyboard immediately. “Chicken and broccoli? King Prawn fritters? Tsingtao?”

“Sounds great. I’m going to shower.” Finch nodded and called to him as he walked away. “There is a change of clothes for you on the top shelf of the cupboard just outside the bathroom, Mr Reese; casual clothes, if you want them.”

Reese took the neat pile into the bathroom. When he was washed and dried off, he redid the dressing on his hand, which was already starting to itch rather than hurt; then he flicked through the pile of new things and put everything on. The clothes were new, but laundered; white boxer briefs, a soft pair of jeans, perhaps a half-size bigger than he usually wore; a long-sleeved t-shirt, white, again slightly loose; and a knitted grey cardigan, with boat shoes.

“What is this outfit about?” he asked in bemusement, as he walked out in it, rubbing his wet hair. “This is a change from the six identical dress shirts on the usual shelf.”

“Oh, I thought of it back in the Fall.” said Finch airily. “You know, I thought you might need to blend in somewhere informal. Or - if you were wounded - it might be good to have something loose which would hide a dressing or a bandage.”

The elevator pinged behind him. It was Shaw, bringing back Bear. Reese looked down at himself. “I look like I am about to go seduce a soccer mom.”

“You look like a soccer mom yourself,” said Shaw. “Actually: you look like John Mayer.”

“Thanks, Shaw.” Bear put his muzzle into the palm of John’s hand before clicking over to Harold to butt his legs and grin at him.

“Not a compliment. Also: kind of fat.”

“Having a houseguest has put you in a good mood.”

She looked down at his shoes, and asked, “Who bought those?” John nodded to Harold.

Shaw screwed up her eyes infinitesimally, and stared at her employer in eloquent disbelief. 

Then all four of them looked down at the perfectly ordinary moccasins for a moment. 

“You’re right, of course, Ms Shaw,” said Harold with a suppressed shudder. “I went a little too far with the suburbanite theme, I think. Do get rid of them immediately, Mr Reese.”

The ping went off to announce that the delivery from House of Fung was downstairs. “What are we having?” asked Shaw.

“Chinese,” said John, and sauntered off in his new favorite moccasins to get it.

“Got a number?” asked Shaw.

“Not since yesterday evening, thank goodness,” said Finch. “It’s been a blessedly quiet day for murder.”

She shrugged infinitesimally with her face. “What’s with his hand?”

“An ember brushed him in a warehouse fire last night - this morning. He says it’s not severe.”

She nodded once as the phone started to ring. It was a number. By the time the elevator doors opened on John standing there with the dinner, Shaw was locking and loading with her earpiece in, ready to go, waiting for him to step out. 

They exchanged places and he rooted around in the bag for a moment with his foot wedged in the elevator door. “What?” she said, impatient.

“Egg rolls,” he said, and handed her the foil-lined bag. She fished one out fast and threw it back to him, through the closing doors, saying, “for Bear.” Then she was gone.

“Tell me what we know,” said Reese, putting Bear’s egg roll on the desk, with a warning look to discourage him from snapping at it and burning his mouth before it cooled. Reese was pulling cartons out, snapping chopsticks, and starting to eat as Finch was still pulling up tabs.

“If I’m not wrong, you’ve been awake for nearly forty hours, Mr Reese, so you won’t be going anywhere. I think Ms Shaw will be fine, and I have contacted Mr Fusco.”

“I’m not arguing,” he said, dividing up dishes, and carefully pushing food over. He listened in to Shaw and Fusco’s briefing while he and Finch ate, then stood up and stretched. “Just in case I do have to go out later, I am going to lie down on the couch. Wake me if there is any excitement. And Finch: don’t you go out, either, not without me, no matter what. Whatever you took this morning was strong stuff, and it is still in your system.” 

“I'm not arguing either, Mr Reese. At first sight, this seems a simple enough domestic problem, anyway.”

“Whatever it _seems_ like in an hour, promise me that you won’t go out without me, or I’ll take a stimulant and stay awake.”

“I won’t go out. In my current state, I would only be putting our number - and Ms Shaw - at risk.”

Suddenly they were within a sentence of Finch’s general condition, and within two sentences of the water all over again. “Mr Reese,” said Finch, and then gestured helplessly, as Shaw said, “I’m here,” over the speaker. She had arrived at the address of Ms Jane-Anne Docherty, and wanted to talk through the layout. Reese jerked his head toward the couch and walked away. He pulled the cushions into the shape he wanted, listening only for the color of Harold’s voice, which was calm and clear and intermittent. When Reese lay down, his head swam. It was partly the fatigue, partly a hangover from the tiny dose of the painkillers he had taken many hours ago, and partly confusion. If Harold now insisted on their going to the pool together, would he have to look for a way out of it? Or would it be all right, now that he had put aside…

He remembered being at his grandmother’s cremation, as an older child, and realizing with a shock that the box containing her body was about to vanish. As well as never being able to call her, or to ask her a question, he would never get to look at her or touch her again. She had been a tall, heavy woman, given to slow, purposeful movement. He had realized, just as he was losing her body, that there had been a bodily component to his fondness for his Nan, nothing weird, but a strong physical attachment to her strong, slightly stooped, soft person. He had loved to bump gently into her side and see her big bony, veiny hands swishing a colander of lettuce leaves in the sink. He had loved, too, listening for her dryness, and the feeling he got when she would wink sneakily at him at odd times - her way of showing her mostly unstated affection for him - but his affection for her body was real, too.

Why was his mind taking him back to that funeral? It was because he was grieving, now, again. And why did he have to grieve? Harold’s body was still there, only in the next room, alive, wasn’t it? Harold was breathing now, speaking in his light, correct tenor, moving in his contained and careful way, feeling pain and possibly sometimes pleasure too, perhaps, capable of feeling comforted by his touch, at least - he felt again the dampness at the back of Harold’s neck in his bracing hand, felt again the slight relaxation through his frame in the car. A rush of rebellion flooded him as he lay motionless on the couch. What if he were to abandon any attempt to guess how Harold might react? What if he were to say to Harold, “I don’t _want_ someone else to help you, _I_ wanted to take you to the water, and I don't want _some guy_ , _some stranger_ , touching you and helping you. What I want is for us to go there _together_ and for me to see you properly, so that I will understand more about how you have been put back together and so that I will get to feel you close to me, with no distance between us.” It might ruin everything and make Harold unhappy, or it might somehow be all right, although he couldn't see how...

Then he was so utterly exhausted that he fell asleep. It was about seven o’clock.

At midnight he woke with a shout of horror. He sat upright and clutched at the throw rug from the end of the couch, which someone had carefully spread over him while he was sleeping. Harold was sitting in the armchair next to the couch staring at him, startled, but giving him time to come back to himself. 

“How Ms Docherty doing?”

“Ms Shaw was more than capable of handling it. Ms Docherty is safely at her sister’s, and her former lodger is in a holding cell downtown, being interrogated as we speak, by a pair of bemused but well-informed police officers.”

“Good to know.” Bear clicked over and put his head on John’s thigh. He rubbed at his soft ears and scratched his head and ran his fingers down his long warm back to reassure him.

“His ears pricked up a minute before you woke just now, but I couldn’t see anything happening, so I didn’t think to try to wake you, I’m sorry. I think the tossing and turning that people do in the movies when they are having a nightmare might be completely concocted.”

“Not always,” said John, having had substantial experience of sleeping in barracks and hides with men with PTSD. He had taken a few hits from strong guys who had groaned in their sleep and woken up fighting, then been covered in shame to find a friendly face looking down at them with the beginnings of a shiner. He let himself fall back to the couch and closed his eyes - he still felt that ashen, dry drag of fatigue - only to see the shot-to-shit stone room of his dream again. He opened his eyes, ducked his head and looked straight into the globe of the standard lamp behind Harold’s chair.

“I’ll get some tea,” said Harold, discreetly, standing up. “You don’t mind tea for now, do you? It’s midnight.”

“I wouldn’t mind one of those beers, if they are cold.”

Harold collected a cane from beside his chair and moved off pretty briskly for a guy who had been barely able to walk only that morning, saying, "Stay there, please," as he left the room. John looked at Bear. “Did he mean me or you?” he whispered to him. His dog didn’t know either, so they both stayed. When Finch came back with a cup for himself and an open bottle for John tucked under his arm, he looked at the two of them quizzically before he sat down. 

“One option - for my injuries - would be for me to take a small dose of that medication, which is an effective muscle relaxant, daily,” said Finch, like the tenacious, observant, relentless obsessive he was. “But then I’d be an addict within a week, and if I were ever cut off from the supply, it would be bad. Also, the drug isn’t exactly conducive to clear thinking.”

“That sounds less than ideal.”

“Yes, so I think we will be trying your very sensible plan in the morning. If there is no number first thing, and I can tidy up a few odds and ends early, I think we will go to a very dull hotel where there is a good pool with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge, and I will do everything I remember from the therapy sessions I had back then, and you can swim a hundred laps and then be bored out of your mind while I get dressed again.”

John was speechless.

“Would you be able to tell me what your nightmare was about, Mr Reese, or would that be too distressing?”

John just stared at Finch. In his dream he had found himself back in time, embedded in the former Yugoslavia, with a 30-year-old explosives specialist called Barre in his arms, the two of them stranded in a hopeless position where no relief could be expected to arrive. The specialist was a tall, lanky fellow from California, a cricket-loving oddball who was some strange ethnic combination of Sri Lankan and French, who had looked a bit like a young Jeff Goldblum. John had liked the man very much in real life, had been attracted to the rigor and frankness of his reports and to his total lack of compromise when it came to his work, and to the grace and relaxation of his movements. He had admired - without thinking about it too much - his long thighs running up to a series of improvised creases and wickets wherever they were quartered, as Barre tried to convert the guys in the unit to the glories of bowling. The shell that was to kill him in a minute or two had taken off most of his right hand, which was now just a horrible red cloth bundle, and had detached a chunk of the wall so that it had flown off and destroyed the base of his spine. 

“Reese,” he had said, in real life and at the beginning of the dream, “don’t even bother with anything.” He meant anything medical. “I’m fucked and I just want you to hold me for a minute, so I don’t die lonely, alright?” John had found the most protected corner of the building and pulled him into his lap, and pressed their foreheads together for a second or two. The shelling and gunfire had moved way off to their left, but John had had a loaded pistol on his left and Barre’s gun on his right. In real life, Barre had gasped out his life in under a minute with his face to John’s breast, his good hand pulling on John’s sleeve, but in the dream, Barre had pulled himself up and had kissed John’s mouth, over and over, long, lover’s kisses, not ambiguous but sexual and overwhelming and tasting of blood and dirt but also of Barre’s rather nice, odd, slightly spicy smell, his tongue soft and wet and cool and quite demanding. Then, in the dream, he had been whispering desperately right into John’s ear, a warning, a blessing, something very kind, but John couldn’t understand it, it was in French or whatever language Barre's mother had spoken in Sri Lanka, and as he whispered, the air tickling his neck a little, John had looked through a doorway and seen another uniformed specialist lying on the concrete, older, pale, dark hair, probably already dead, one lens of his glasses broken, and in his hand not a gun, but a cane. The shock of seeing who it was had woken him.

“Of course, don’t say anything about it if you prefer not to. I know that you, too, are a very private person, Mr Reese. I regret that the early circumstances of our acquaintance did not always permit me to respect your privacy. For instance, I knew from the beginning, from your various files, that you were not exclusively straight. There has been an informational asymmetry there - one that I have deliberately preserved, I confess. You found out about Grace, but I think - not about others I have…”

Reese drained his beer, slid off the couch and put his arms around Bear, who obligingly pushed in close to him. Bear loved him, didn’t he? That was something. And Bear couldn't keep talking until Reese's heart broke yet again, which was another good thing about him.

“I didn’t want to accept your offer about the swimming at first, I think,” Finch was saying, “because some unworthy part of me didn’t want you to see how damaged I am, and how - I am not young, and even when I was, I was never - but that was quite wrong of me, to want to reserve myself like that from you. It was foolish to think that a man like you could be - disgusted, - or less than accepting of me, because of the absence of a few layers of cotton and wool and silk and leather. You are so, so good, John, to me, so patient. I don’t need to preserve distance between us, to hide my body from your eyes, do I? Or from your touch, if you can bear to help me, or to...” Harold was wiping his glasses on his handkerchief, but John couldn’t look at him directly. “So we will go. Tomorrow. Together. And I am sorry for being so slow to perceive that there was - perhaps - something else there, between us. That we were past me hiding my body from you, anyway. I still won’t tell you anything that will endanger you or others further, but I don’t need to hide my scars, or how I am, I think." There was a long silence.

John cleared his throat. “Harold.”

“Yes?”

“What’s the time?”

“It’s ten after twelve.”

"And you decided all this while I was asleep?"

"I was thinking about it then, yes."

“Then you knew the same day I did - that I knew it consciously, anyway - that there was - perhaps - something else there.”

“Ha!” said Harold, a little chuffed, standing up. “Well then. That's something. Shall I leave Bear with you?" 

"No. I'll sleep better knowing you have him."

"Are you comfortable enough there?"

"Yes." John settled himself back on the couch, with the throw rug over him, and his arm over his eyes. "Good night, then, Harold."

"Good night, John." And they left, Bear's feet clicking, Harold turning out the lights as he went.


	3. Numbers before Swimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning they get a number first thing; Harold heroically goes shopping; John drinks a lot of coffees; Shaw is unilaterally though not unreasonably violent.

Of course, the next morning, any ideas about swimming were off the table, because there was a number.

Ernest Tang ran a very old-fashioned antique bookstore on a quiet street. Unsurprisingly, Harold volunteered to visit it to find out what manner of peril lurked among the shelves, and also, if Tang’s Antiquarian had anything interesting.

“Heroic, is what you are,” murmured Reese from around the corner.

“I’ll have you know that I could be risking - oh!” murmured his earpiece, sotto voce. “There is a rather nice little Florio here, actually!”

There was a protracted silence. Harold had quite evidently started to read the nice little Florio, whatever that might be. Reese pulled out his phone and looked at the time. After three minutes, he said, “Finch." 

“Good morning!” said Harold to someone else, in the jolliest manner possible. “This is really rather lovely!” 

“Isn’t it?” said another male voice. “I don’t know if it’s an ideal translation, but…" 

“It suggests that genial rambling quality of the original, though!”

“It seemed a very sweet book to me, but my French isn’t quite good enough for Montaigne, I confess. It’s re-bound, of course, and only in fair condition, or it would be shockingly expensive."

“It’s really for reading, to be honest!”

There was a short laugh. “You are a believer in enjoying life while we may, then, Mr - ”

Reese recognised the approving silence that followed. He could almost see the twist of a half-smile.

“Shearwater,” said Finch, “and I suppose I am. Are you Mr Tang himself?”

“I am he,” said the bookseller, audibly grinning even through the tiny mic Finch wore.

“That was a very pleasant-seeming fellow,” said Finch, rounding the corner a good fifteen minutes later.

“I think you made a friend there, Harold,” said John. “He seemed quite delighted with you.”

“I do hope he isn’t a would-be murderer,” said Finch. “I think that might depress me. Is your hand painful?”

“It itches a little,” said John, who had been resisting the urge to twitch at the edges of the dressing.

“Perhaps it was just as well that we didn’t go to the pool today, after all,” said Finch. “It might be prudent to wait till your hand is healed, in fact.”

“Perhaps I should focus on attempting to prevent your new friend from attending his local Fight Club tonight.”

“Or from poisoning his landlady.”

Mr Tang was the quietest and most orderly number Reese could remember. After vanishing out the back of the store for five minutes - presumably to lock one or two pieces and the till drawer in the safe - he walked home without so much as jaywalking, only stopping to buy a few items from the grocery store on his corner. He virtuously, if slowly, took the stairs to his fifth floor apartment. The wildest thing about him was that he failed to draw his blinds at sunset, giving John a rather lovely view of him pattering about, evidently deep in conversation with his little black cat.

“What is Mr Tang up to, Mr Reese?” asked Harold, just as John was drinking some of his thermos of coffee and eating a boiled egg, in his comfortable hide on the roof of the apartment block across the way.

“It’s a depraved scene, over there, Finch.”

“Is it really?” asked Finch, startled.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but your bookseller is a degenerate.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He just cut off part of the piece of chicken he was eating, diced it, and let his kitten eat it right off his side plate AT THE TABLE.”

“That’s rather unsanitary!”

“Now you know the truth. Any minute now I expect him to go to bed without flossing his teeth. He’s a fiend. He could be capable of anything.”

“You might as well go home to sleep, then,” said Finch, not unhappily. “The store opens at ten tomorrow morning. Shall I ask Ms Shaw to watch from seven, do you think?”

“Don’t trouble Shaw. I’ll wait till Mr Tang turns in, just to be certain,” said John, “and I could almost walk back here in the morning.” It wasn’t cold, and it was rather pleasant to be up so high under the new moon.

“Just as you like, Mr Reese. Is your hand all right?”

“It’s fine. I can re-dress it later.”

“Let me know when the skin is healed, and I will make the arrangements.”

Finch meant that he would make arrangements for them to go swimming. And for Reese to see him, to help him, to touch him and be close to him. At the hotel with the view of the Brooklyn Bridge. Would Finch want to - what was in his mind as the corollary of not hiding himself from Reese? John’s briefs were suddenly tight. He felt the back of Finch’s neck in the palm of his hand again.

“Harold,” he heard himself say, and stopped in surprise. He hadn’t actually meant to speak.

“Is everything all right?” said the voice in his ear, quietly.

He struggled for what to say. “I have to make sure I am paying attention, to the number, now. I know you like Ernest, here, and I don’t want anything to go wrong because I am distracted.”

“Of course not,” said Finch. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. Good night, for now, Mr Reese.”

The next day around eleven, Ernest was delighted when Mr Shearwater came back in to pick up a Mallarmé Poe over which he had been hemming and hawing the previous day. John was very contentedly sipping a coffee and not-listening to the two enthusiasts politely exclaiming over each of the Manet plates in turn, when he heard the bell ring over the shop door, indicating that someone else had come into the store.

Mr Shearwater slipped out with a vaguely apologetic wave of his phone, to find Reese waiting in front of a florist two doors down.

“I fear there will be little joy for Mr Tang, however this plays out,” fretted Harold, raking through files on the phone. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come outside, but it seemed so impolite to listen. He didn’t seem murderous just now, but his son must be the source of the danger, surely.”

“I might have to step in right now and do a little shopping of my own,” said Reese, shifting their position so he could see into the bookstore, “that sounded like a pretty desperate man in there,” but at that moment the younger Mr Tang stormed out of the shop, with an unholy clanging of the bell. He wasn’t so beside himself that he didn’t register the sight of his father’s customer talking with someone else just outside. He snarled outright at them, turned, and stalked off.

“Oh dear,” said Finch.

After a few moments, armed with two green teas from the café down the block where Reese had been lingering half the morning, Finch went back in. This time Mr Tang divulged that his son had been in complicated financial difficulties; that he was really a very intelligent and capable young man; that his son missed his mother terribly since her death some six years previously; and that he was unsure best how to help Stanley back onto his feet. As Ernest was red-eyed and pale, and trembled as he told this story of a dutiful but unfortunate son, Harold was disinclined to take any of his wishful thinking too seriously. The evidence seemed rather to suggest that Stanley had a galloping crystal meth addiction, and was currently devoid of filial piety of any kind, being possessed of the idea that it was up to his father to help him to get anything he wanted. John, listening, was quite determined not to let Tang Snr out of his line of sight until the son was dealt with.

He changed cafes, to one directly across the street. When Finch came out, he limped across to where Reese sat.

“I suppose Mr Tang might be planning to shoot Stanley before he disgraces the family name any further,” Finch said. “I might want to, if I were that man and had that child.”

“I doubt the Machine would know about Ernest’s murderous intent before he did himself,” said John, “and he sounded like he was clinging to denial.”

“Oh, you know, thick face black heart,” said Finch. “He was attempting to maintain a proper façade there, I fear.”

They didn’t have long to wait, or much time to ping Shaw. At half past three, Mr Tang started out to take his week’s rather splendid takings to the bank, and John collected his very unpleasant would-be mugger, while Shaw, waiting at the bookshop, followed Stanley into the back room and dealt with him summarily as he tried to rob the safe. She bundled him out, used his key to lock the door, and then when he turned nasty, was forced to hit him a few times very much more effectively than he was expecting.

“Now what, Harold?” she said, from a convenient doorway, over his short muffled yell, as she pressed her new .22 meaningfully into his liver. “How the hell am I meant to stop him trying this again tomorrow?”

“Just a moment, Ms Shaw,” sang Harold, listening.

“That was close,” said John, panting artistically, even though it hadn’t been close at all. “You OK there, buddy?”

“Yes,” said Mr Tang. “Thank you for your assistance. Could you take off that person’s mask, please?”

John did. The spectacle was unappealing. “So have you ever seen this guy before?”

“No,” said Tang hoarsely. “No, thank God, he is a total stranger to me. I was afraid - but - he must have followed me from my store,” and he coughed a little. “I have eighty dollars and several crossed cheques in my wallet, young man. It would have been a very disappointing robbery for you!”

“Let me go - OW!” said the mugger, having unwisely attempted to kick his captor. A string of profanities followed. John sacrificed his handkerchief to gag him, before the spotty man could inflict maximum pain on Mr Tang by telling him who had arranged the mugging.

“Just look away for a moment,” he said to Mr Tang, and banged Spotty’s head against the wall, gamely attempting the delicate task of knocking him insensible for a moment without creating a permanent burden on society.

“I suppose I should ring an ambulance now, before I go into the bank, as that man there has fainted,” said Mr Tang, proving himself rather a good sport. John heard Harold’s quiet snort.

“Finch!” crackled Shaw. “What am I supposed to be doing with this idiot?”

“A long spell in hospital might be the best thing for him,” mused Finch aloud. There were two muffled cracks and a howl. “Ms Shaw!” wailed Harold, “What have you done?”

“Only his arms, Finch, calm down,” said Shaw, “and nice clean breaks at that.”

“Dear God in Heaven,” said Finch, “that is simply - we will have to discuss this later, Ms Shaw, you had better remove yourself from the area! Aren’t people staring?” There was a long pause. “Ms Shaw! What on earth is happening?”

“Sorry, didn't mean to drop out there,” John heard her say over the re-opened line after a moment, just a little out of breath. “No problems, I'm in the clear. I put the idiot in a cab and told the driver that my boyfriend had hurt his arms, and that I was giving him some cash to rush poor Stanley to the hospital, and yelled that I would get our car and follow him to St Thomas’s and not to worry, and ran away,” she said. “There were a few people around, but they all looked very sympathetic and they were all trying to see into the taxi, so I don’t think I made much of an impression.”

“Ms Shaw, you terrify me,” Finch replied.

“Nice work, Shaw,” murmured John, rounding the corner as the ambulance arrived to pick up the groaning mugger from near the bank.

“Well,” said Harold. “I’m sure I don’t know what to say. I suppose when Stanley wakes up with two broken arms he will need his father’s help to feed himself, so they may have to be somewhat reconciled.”

“He will detox in the hospital, anyway. Which might kill him, if he doesn’t bleed out before he gets there,” said John.

“Hey,” said Shaw sharply, “Is that an ambulance I hear? I’m not the one inflicting random injuries on junkies, here. No one’s bleeding out at my end of this.”

“I’m all but speechless,” said Harold.

“Yeah, and you owe me another $300, by the way,” said Shaw.

“All right,” said Finch. “I suppose I shall go back to the Library now and reflect on my choices.”

“The unexamined life is not worth living.”

“Quite right, Mr Reese. Please accompany me so that I can re-dress that burn properly.”

At the library Reese hissed very slightly when the tape on the back of his hand was gingerly removed. The surface where the burn was attempting to heal was disrupted by an angry red crack about an inch long. It looked bad and felt worse. Finch sprayed the area liberally with a disinfectant containing a local anaesthetic - a treatment probably intended for sunburns - and shook his head at any vague talk of stitches. “I suppose there is no skin worth stitching together, is there?” said Reese. “It’s a good thing it’s small.”

“It’s a great deal bigger than I’d like,” said Finch almost crossly, “and it looks worryingly susceptible to infection to me, in its current state.”

“Now, now, you mustn't be so impatient,” said Reese, trying not to smile, as Finch carefully fitted the new dressing into place, “Don’t worry. I’m a quick healer.”

Finch peered at him suspiciously, and then blushed. His ears and his cheeks went quite pink, and he frowned.

“Harold,” said John, “you never fail to delight me.” Finch, a little stung, abruptly let go of John's cleaned and dressed hand, but John caught hold of Finch’s in a gentle two-handed grip. It was strange, and nice, to hold his hand. “Not long now. Whatever you want, whatever I can do to help, to be there for you,” he murmured. “You have already done all the hard work, as usual.”

Finch was looking at John’s hands holding his, almost apprehensively. “I don’t know about that, Mr Reese,” he said. “I fear we may have some work yet to do.”

“But with your wild disregard for all convention - “

“Ha!”

“- and my sensitivity and delicacy - “

“Well -“

“ - how can we possibly go wrong, Harold?” And John ducked in and kissed him on the cheek, close to the corner of his mouth. Then he checked Finch’s reaction. Harold looked back at him, apparently surprised, but also smiling with pleasure. With his non-captive hand he touched the place on his cheek.

“I have no idea what is going to happen to us in the end,” said Finch, his voice just a little husky.

“All the more reason to make the middle memorable,” said John, still holding his hand, until the elevator door bell rang.


	4. Washed Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harold take the opportunity to visit the very dull hotel - and their evening turns out to be anything but dull.

"They're picking Mommy up, too, now," said Reese, ducking to ensure that the cops on the street below wouldn't see his head silhouetted against the pale clouds in the night sky. It was never really dark in New York, and there was a bright moon tonight.

"Do you think you left any trace in the apartment?" asked Finch.

"I am pretty sure the kid will have noticed the big tall stranger in a balaclava going through her medicine and then giving her ipecac and then holding her hair while she vomited and then cleaning her teeth and then putting her back into bed. I think she will probably point me out if anyone shows her a picture of me. On the other hand, she might say it was me if it is a picture of any male human being.”

"You never know with children," said Finch, "After all, it was quite irrational of her to accept your help instead of screaming the place down! She might tell the police that a - magic ninja - looked after her when she was sick. Anything else I should be worried about?" 

"I don't think Mommy Munchhausen saw me at all. I left nothing in the kitchen - and I wore gloves - but I did take one glove off for the vomiting part, so some prints are likely. Definitely on skin, if they want to go crazy about investigating it. Do we care?"

"No, no. I’d prefer us to be able to clean up after you with a flamethrower, though. It annoys me to leave data behind."

"By 'data' you mean a hair with my DNA on the root."

"Yes - or video. Or memories."

"I am looking at their fire escape now, and I think that any open flame bigger than a candle in that building would probably generate 300 new numbers in the next five minutes."

"And perhaps it’s wrong to even want to take away memories. You never know what will turn out to be important: little Eleanor's memory of you might be a - a special one: an adventure, after which things got better."

"The time the special vomit ninja came, and drugged her mother, and got her arrested?"

"You can stop saying vomit, now, if you please," said Finch, "It was quite exciting enough listening to your evening in quality audio. Are you - do you need to change?"

"No, Harold, I was careful," said Reese. "Is there another number already?"

"No," said Finch, and Reese could have sworn he sounded nervous. "That was all quite satisfactory, from the outcome point of view, and it's only nine-thirty, so if you are not tired, I thought we might take the chance - your hand seems to have healed - and - "

"Are we going swimming, then?" asked John, taking one last peek over the parapet. "I haven't brought my trunks and goggles, but I know you'll have thought of everything."

"I don't know if I have or haven't, but I am on the way to the alley behind the building you are on, and Ms Shaw has offered to take Bear again."

"She is trying to steal your dog, Harold!"

"He’s your dog, Mr Reese! - although - he did seem quite thrilled to see her! Do you think she lets him sleep on the end of the bed? What if she gives him bad habits?"

Reese thought it likely that Bear's dinner at Shaw's was a big diced rare rump steak and some low-lactose cheddar, and that he was encouraged when at her place not only to sleep on the bed, but to sprawl on the couch, eat scraps from her dinner next to the table, scratch himself freely, run around at 2am, and generally do whatever the hell he wanted whenever the mood took him. As Bear's company seemed to make Shaw cheerful - compared to her usual self anyway - Reese was disinclined to share his speculations.

"Bear knows how to behave, Finch," he said comfortingly, packing up his scopes and accoutrements.

Nevertheless, Finch was looking more than usually edgy as Reese threw his gear in the trunk and slipped into the back seat. “Are we going to the Brooklyn Bridge Marriott?” he asked.

“Not one of your more impressive investigative efforts, Mr Reese. I assume that surmise took you under a minute to put together, from your first google search.”

Reese looked at Finch, who was glaring out his window. “Harold.” He waited for him to look around.

“You realise you weren’t being secretive about this, right? You more-or-less told me where you wanted to go yourself, the other night.”

Finch covered his eyes with his hand. He was quiet for a while, breathing deeply. In the end he spoke before he took away his hand.

“I feel quite ridiculous. I - . Perhaps this is unwise.”

“You can always just go for your swim and then go home, if you are tired, afterwards. I can sit at the other end and keep an eye out for anything.”

Harold shook his head and didn’t answer. When they got to the hotel, he went to the desk, then looked to Reese to follow him into the elevator. On the pool floor, an attendant in his sixties handed Reese a neat bag with two full sets of every possible kind of swimming accessory in it - trunks, goggles, earplugs, noseclips, towels - one set of flippers, and a large zip-loc plastic bag. Then he turned the key in the lock to the heavy glass double doors opening into the pool area, opened them, and then handed the key to Reese as they stepped through. It was on a lanyard, with an electronic suite key.

“I have a duplicate and so does the Concierge,” the attendant said, “but that’s it. The suite is number 1401, down the end there, and it’s the only suite on this floor. I am going to come back and collect your clothes for pressing in twenty minutes, while you enjoy the pool, if you have no objections. This area always closes at nine, and I will key off the lift for this floor, although it will still come if you call it from this level. If you don’t anticipate any other security issues for Mr Vogelsang, will that be satisfactory?”

“Thank you - “

“Chuck,” said the attendant, courteously. “No problem.”

Reese locked the door behind Chuck, and followed Finch to the change room. Harold sat down, leaned over a little awkwardly and untied his shoes at once, and pushed them off. He had his socks off and tucked into the shoes within seconds. He untied his tie and hung it on the hook above his head. Then he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the hook, wincing slightly at the way it fell.

“Are you OK, Finch?”

“I can’t think about this or I won’t be able to do it,” he said, tense.

“Then either don’t think, or don’t do it if you don’t want to.”

But Finch was taking off his shirt and pants, and then peeling off his undershirt. He sat on the bench in his boxer briefs with his face in his hands again. Reese looked at his back. Finch’s skin was fair, and he had no freckles on his shoulders. His back and arms seemed slightly stronger than Reese had envisaged, perhaps from the asymmetrical rigour of using the cane. John found himself half-smiling - Harold did have a little hair on his lower back, just as he had imagined. His scars were surprisingly varied. None of the ones John could see were particularly recent. Around the top of his neck he had long, fine, very pale pink surgical scars, well-done except for a slight pucker over the downward slope of the nape of his neck. Above his briefs on the left side was what looked like a small burn, with some slightly raised white flecks of scar tissue around it. High on his thigh was a star, like a permanent bruise mark, made by collapsed blood vessels from a major impact. 

Reese fished in the bag, and brought out two neat pairs of trunks. The ones in his size were grey - Harold had obviously picked them out carefully, or ordered them somehow - and Harold’s were - he wanted to laugh, but it didn’t seem to be the right moment - a subdued brown plaid. Reese sat down next to Finch and started to undress. He took off his own shoes, watchful, quiet.

When he was completely ready, he reached out and touched Harold’s shoulder. It was surprisingly difficult to do, because his employer’s entire posture radiated anxiety, an unwillingness to engage. He even started as Reese’s fingers made contact - or possibly a moment before. Finch was in a hypersensitive state.

“What is going on, Harold?” asked Reese. “I see you working hard, but I don’t understand it. We can do whatever you want. We can get dressed again and go out for Korean barbecue. I don’t care.”

“I am going to get in that pool,” said Finch grimly to the doorway.

“You’ll want these then,” and Reese handed him the plaid trunks, “Nice selection, by the way. Are you afraid of the water?” 

“No.”

“Then what it is it? I can look away if that helps.”

“It might,” Finch said, and pulled the trunks on quickly. He stood with an effort and limped out. John walked carefully along the dry tiles to the ladder close behind him, so that if Finch faltered or slipped he could be there. When they got close to the ladder, John put the waterproof bag down on a nearby bench, and brought the two sets of goggles to the pool’s edge. Then he swung himself down into the shallow water, which had almost no smell and wasn’t over-heated. Harold clung to the big curved railing of the ladder with one hand. John refrained from looking at Harold - at his thighs, his chest, his hands and wrists - with an effort.

“I am being a fool,” said Harold, and stepped around the ladder and took the first step down into the water. Then he clung on for a moment, looking back to the doors to the pool from the hotel. 

“Finch,” said John, “the good thing about water is that if you slipped and fell from there, there is nothing to hurt yourself on. You could fall backwards from there, and apart from getting some of it up your nose, nothing bad would happen to you.”

“Good point,” said Finch, and chose to let go immediately, falling backwards. He surfaced, spluttering a little, while John was still wiping his eyes from the splash. “I forgot to take off my glasses,” he said, blinking around like an owl, his eyes huge. John slipped on his goggles and retrieved them from the bottom of the pool unharmed, and put them up on the side.

“Do you want to wear these?” John held up the other pair of goggles. 

“No,” said Finch, “most of the exercises let me keep my eyes clear of the water.”

“Do you want a spotter?”

“Thank you, no, Mr Reese. I will be thirty minutes or so at least - longer - if you would like to swim some laps.”

John took that as a polite instruction and took himself to the other side of the pool, and started, up and down methodically, four steady laps and a sprint. If he looked over to his right in the shallow end, he could see Harold striding against the resistance of the water and even jumping along, to the halfway mark of the pool and then back. He seemed to be fully occupied, so John let him be, until he had swum his own forty laps. He was glad to feel that his swimming was still pretty fair - fitness from running and free weights and drills at home every now and then seemed to be enough to enable him to swim most of a length of this pool in a single breath. He felt warm, sleek and conscious of his own muscularity. He paddled over to Harold’s side, carefully.

“That seemed to go well,” he said, as Finch reached the end and turned around, resting against the edge, breathing hard.

“Thank you, yes it did,” said Harold, smiling. “It was difficult not to get - well - it was quite pleasant to do the exercises, actually.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” said John. “I am really glad we came here though.” He was fighting the urge to grin at Harold’s hair, which had sprung up in a sort of crest. He looked rather like a wet cockatoo. It was adorable. 

“I am going to ignore your facial expression, which suggests that my hair is doing something ridiculous and that you are enjoying it immensely - “

“You are not quite blind then!”

“I could hear it in your voice if you were on the other side of a brick wall!”

“We are probably pretty good at extrapolating facial expressions from each other’s voices, I suppose,” said John.

Somehow that qualified as an awkwardly sentimental thing to say, because Harold was just slightly blushing again.

“Mr Reese, I am sorry if I was - difficult - earlier. As well as - I learnt these exercises in the recovery period after - after Nathan’s death, when I was extremely unhappy and unsure of my course - or my culpability. I wasn’t even sure then if I wanted to recover, or deserved to. Back then the exercises were quite painful, and humiliatingly difficult. And it was when I had just acknowledged to myself that I couldn’t be with Grace, not in the circumstances. I think I rather felt that my body was of no more use to me, or to anyone else either.”

“Did you see your friend at the ferry, after the attack?”

“Yes,” said Finch. “yes, I saw his body. Poor Nathan.”

“I am very sorry you lost your friend, Finch.”

“Thank you, Mr Reese.”

It was odd to John how Harold could look simply hilarious one moment, and yet completely dignified the next, half naked, up to his nicely hairy breast in water. John looked for a way to stop him from disappearing back into dark thoughts.

“Can you float in the water, Harold? On your back, I mean?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know if my neck is too stiff to find a good angle. Perhaps if you support me while I find the right position, I can do it.” Harold pushed off and tried to float in front of John, who put a careful hand under his neck. It took a little work for Harold to find the posture, and then to relax and close his eyes. Now their situation was so close to what John had imagined that he felt dizzy. He looked at the curve of Harold’s thigh. Had he actually had a real dream of this, that he had forgotten? The déjà vu was acute. He took his hands away to let Harold float independently, but that was not a success, because his eyes shot open. John put his hand back to Harold’s neck. He could tell he was developing a thing about it.

“I don’t like the feeling of floating all alone in the water, it seems,” said Harold.

“Fair enough.”

“It made me think just for a moment of morphine, which I dislike very much.”

“Why?” John couldn’t ever recollect objecting to morphine.

“It takes away the sense one always has - that need to do the next thing - to see what will happen - I think of it as the feeling of being alive. I never knew about that feeling - it’s almost like a constant irritation, but it is not unpleasant - I never knew it was there, until someone put morphine in my system in an ambulance and it went away. I felt like I was dead.”

“So - for you, contact with someone who constantly irritates you is what keeps you feeling like yourself.”

Harold stood up in the water, smiling, and shivered. 

“Don’t get cold, Harold,” said John. “You’ll get cold even in water like this if you aren’t moving. Come on.” He handed him his glasses, which had dried on the side of the pool.

“I wasn’t looking forward to this part, but now I think -“ Harold climbed up the ladder unassisted, with a little effort, managing his hip well. At the top, he stood, recovering and watching. John pushed himself up the side. He could feel Harold’s gaze, feel his own triceps standing out, his normal weight and force coming back to him. 

“Are you hungry, Mr Reese?”

“Not unbearably, and I want a hot shower now. You should have one too.”

“All right,” said Finch, picking up their things and putting them in their bag. Reese took it from him and followed him back to the changing room. The things they had left there had all been discreetly removed, presumably to re-appear in the suite, but two robes and two pairs of slippers waited for them. Reese threw both pairs of slippers in their swimming bag, on top of his gun, still perfectly dry in its zip-lock bag. “Those slippers are an accident waiting to happen,” he said, putting on his robe. “There are not many situations where you are better off in loose cloth shoes than in bare feet.”

“I bow to your judgement,” said Harold, as they went down the hall, both in bulky white waffle-weave cotton. 

“Your limp was less noticeable just now,” said Reese, unlocking the suite door with one hand in the swimming bag, and looking round in satisfaction as he waved Harold in to the short hall, and locked the door behind him. It wasn’t a huge space; it had a nice outlook up here on the 14th floor, of course. It had a little couch and a dinner nook in front of the window, and two impressively large, white queen beds, both with the covers turned back.

When John turned round, Harold was showing him the contents of the closet. Both their suits were there, pressed and ready, and two bags with fresh shirts and underclothes, and their shoes.

“I feel rather mean about having called this hotel dull,” said Harold. “They can certainly follow instructions! And they seem to have thought of everything.”

“Who thought of that zip-lock bag, Harold?”

“Well; that was me,” admitted Harold, attempting to suppress a smirk, “but to be fair, I am fairly experienced when it comes to catering to your particular needs.”

John looked steadily back at him until Finch started to go pink again. “Do you want to shower first?” Harold asked hurriedly.

“Not really,” said John, and kept looking at him. 

“Oh,” said Harold, swallowing.

John kept looking, at the V of Harold’s robe. His skin looked very nice. He really, really wanted to put his face in the curve under Harold’s jaw, and reach up under his arm to put his hand back on the nape of Harold’s neck. His mouth was starting to water, but Harold didn’t move.

“I - I am very shy,” said Harold apologetically, rigidly immobile.

“One of three things, any of which are absolutely fine,” said John. “You find at this moment that you don’t want me to touch you, not sexually anyway; or, you really do want me to touch you, and quite a lot more, but you aren’t sure how to proceed; or, you want me to touch you to find out if you like it - sexually - but you might need me to stop suddenly if it turns out you don’t like it after all, or if you find it too distressing to be seen and touched.”

“The second one,” said Harold at once.

“No wonder the hotel staff followed your instructions, Harold,” said John, untying his own robe’s belt, and pushing down the wet trunks he wore, and throwing them onto the tiled floor of the bathroom. “You are always so brilliantly clear,” and then he stepped close and put his face under Harold’s jaw. He smelt of chlorine and himself. John tasted the skin and felt what he was quite sure was the right kind of shudder. He gripped the back of Harold’s neck and felt him relax, and kissed him. Perhaps the best thing about the kiss was how rapidly Harold lost it. He swayed, and John had to hold him up for a moment when he released his mouth.

“That was all right, wasn’t it?” he said, looking down at Harold’s hands on his chest with satisfaction. 

“Dear God in Heaven,” said Harold, “I can’t believe you are going to let me touch you.”

“Let?” said John, amused.

“We had better shower at once,” said Harold, “or I will be inappropriately aroused whenever anyone opens a bottle of bleach for the next twenty years.”

Amongst the clouds of steam produced by the mighty shower in the suite, John washed Harold’s hair for him, and scrubbed his back gently, while Harold put his hands up on the tiles on the side of the recess and leant forward. John washed the hair under Harold's arms and soaped up his privates and rinsed them carefully, which made him moan helplessly, and lean further forward to brace himself with one knee as well as his forearms. Then John petted that little patch of hair low down on Harold’s back. 

“I don’t know why,” he murmured into his ear through the deluge of water, “but I like this bit of you a lot. I like your ass too; it’s not pushy, somehow. It’s a reserved person’s ass.”

“I am afraid I will fall down,” said Harold, turning in his arms to face him, gasping for air and composure.

“I don’t think you will,” said John, lighting up even more as their naked bodies glanced off each other wetly here and there, “but perhaps we should dry off, and then we can both fall down in the other room, onto something soft.” 

“I want to dry your hair, please,” said Harold, and as soon as John had turned off the shower, thrown a towel on the lid of the toilet, and seated himself comfortably, he did exactly that, as well as all of the rest of John that Harold could reach standing up. John leaned over and dried his own feet and legs, and Harold’s too. When he sat up, Harold was looking quizzically at his hair.

“Your hair is so thick!” Finch cautiously put his hand into John’s hair, and very carefully gripped the handful, and pulled.

“Fuck!” shouted John hoarsely, his head tilting back. His broad chest heaved. He would have felt foolish at coming unstuck so suddenly and completely, but he supposed it was a good thing that Harold could now have no possible doubt about the authenticity - immediacy, even - of his desire for him. 

“In the pool, it almost looked - like seal fur, somehow. You are so smooth - quite an aquatic animal, in a way,” said Finch.

“I thought perhaps fire was my element,” said John.

“If you took fire and water, that would leave me with earth and air.”

“That seems right, for a man who is also a flock of birds.”

“Hardly a flock, when they are all of different species,” said Harold, experimentally thumbing John’s nipple, and then his side over his lowest rib.

“Unh,” said John’s throat, with no conscious input from his brain, as he half-fell forward onto Harold’s damp, strong shoulder, and his arms came up to hold onto his waist. He turned his face down and kissed Harold’s breast. 

“I do hope Ms Shaw isn’t indulging Bear too terribly,” said Harold, in a breathy but otherwise faultless impression of his usual fussy style. He took hold of both of John’s hands, stepped back, opening John’s arms, and pulled him to his feet. John was looked down at him again, perhaps a little dazed. “It will be bad enough to have one of you completely out of control, after all.”

“That shyness of yours seems to have evaporat- oh my GOD, Finch!” cried John, as Harold stepped in, and rolled John’s balls smoothly in his hand, and stroked the warm skin behind them with an exploratory finger.

Finch let him go, turned him around by the shoulders and pushed him out towards the nearer of the two beds. When they reached the edge, Harold pushed him forward and down, jerking the covers out of the way with one hand, so that John could fall forward onto one knee with Harold’s grip on his shoulders pressing him towards the glowing white sheet, until he had to reach forward to brace himself with both hands or fall on his face. Then Harold kissed the back of his neck, and reached down, to run a hot hand up the inside of his thigh and to hold his penis pretty firmly. John made a sort of choking noise that would have embarrassed him, if he had still been capable of embarrassment. His mouth felt swollen. He felt Harold’s breast against his back, and a kiss behind his ear. Then Harold was murmuring into his neck, while his hands were suddenly everywhere, testing, teasing, mapping, caressing, working him.

“Yes, it’s curious, isn’t it? I really did feel dreadfully unhappy, earlier. I was so afraid you would be - move your knee - that’s exactly right, Mr Reese - disappointed, or put off, because you are, yourself, so remarkably - ah! and what about this? that too! - so remarkably beautiful - but you really never fail me either, do you? There, that’s it, I have you, it’s quite all right to - John - oh Mr Reese. You are an extraordinary creature. There you go. Do lie right down for me for a moment at least, I want to look at your back. And that beautiful hair of yours - how odd - it makes me just long to pull it quite hard - ! Sh - sh - John. I truly wasn’t exaggerating about how shy I am, before. It just seemed to get washed away in all that water…”

And Harold lay comfortably down, warm and hard and nice-smelling and soft, partly on top of him, partly fitted all around him, with their right hands intertwined, and Harold’s thumb just very lightly brushing the new skin. Before he could take a moment to think about the propriety of doing so, Reese fell fast asleep. The last thing he thought he heard before he sank sweetly under was Harold’s quiet huff of mingled amusement and exasperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kind kind readers and commenters and encouragers - I just chipped and chipped away at the ending and didn't even stop to acknowledge your lovely remarks - but I will get to that, now it is DONE! xx


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